


Death and Harmony

by Author_of_Kheios



Series: Hardships and Victories [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Genyatta - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 07:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21012410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author_of_Kheios/pseuds/Author_of_Kheios
Summary: Genji is a bitter, broken man. Zenyatta has secrets he'd rather hide. Neither expects the other to be his saving grace... Fortunately, the Iris is not done with either of them yet.





	Death and Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello! Welcome to my first Overwatch fic! I know, I know; what's total DBH trash doing writing an OW fic?? I can have more than one obsession, you know. ;)
> 
> This is a little different than what I normally do with my fics, in a number of ways... First off, it's already completed, so no chance for y'all to drop your suggestions this time. Second, along the same lines; I didn't break this up into chapters, but rather it's segmented to keep the flow of the plot without hard breaks, so all 16k words are going to be posted at once. Third, which I suppose is not really that different, actually, so really this is just something to note before you begin reading: I wrote this based entirely on canon as I have interpreted it via other fanfics, with a few of my own twists thrown in, bc it's my story and I can do what I want. -^-
> 
> Also! Fair warning, there is some heavy thematic content in here, hence the M rating, but very little actual violence and practically zero sexual content. Iow, if you're looking for pwp, this is not your story. However, if you like serious relationship building and don't mind a bit of a slow burn, then have at it! The rating is more for the fact that both Genji and Zenyatta come inches from death, and both come away from the experience feeling cheated, and also they just have some serious baggage that needs confronting.
> 
> One last thing before I let you dive in. _Death and Harmony_ has a superficial ending; it can be read standalone, but there will eventually be a follow-up, so if the end seems a tad abrupt, that's why. I made sure to tie things up fairly neatly, so there aren't a lot of loose threads so much as it's just an open end; the story relates to their time together, so once they separate, there is no need to continue. At least, not until the next part.
> 
> This is all just to pre-empt any comments demanding to know where the rest of it is, jsyk. XD The answer is: it's on the way. Eventually~
> 
> But enough jabbering; enjoy the read, and don't forget to kudo, comment, and subscribe!
> 
> EDIT: Added it to a series, since it's become a thing XD

DEATH

_ I deserve this_. That was the only thought playing on repeat in Genji’s mind as he lay there, on the blade’s edge of death, blind to the wide open night sky above.

_ I deserve this. _ The melody of crickets and nightingales singing in such sweet harmony fell on deaf ears, numb senses.

_ I deserve this. _ His slowing heart ached with weary resentment and bitter acceptance for the fate he’d brought down upon his own shoulders.

_ I deserve this. _ Cold metal unwarmed by the flow of his lifeblood stung his side, where Hanzo’s blade remained embedded within him; the last sensation still prominent in the haze of his fading mind.

_ I deserve this. _ It was over, and even the pain had faded to a distance; this was his time, and bitter though he was, he went.

♟♟♟

_ I don’t deserve this_... Genji scowled at his reflection in the mirror. Hating every line of pink, healing skin that would leave ragged scars across the entirety of his body.

Of what remained of his body. So very little of that... The majority of him had been cut away, replaced with cold unfeeling metal.

A cyborg. That was what he’d become. That was the price of returning from the brink of death. A price he had not wanted to pay, the choice ripped from his hands as viciously as he’d been torn from death’s embrace.

He didn’t want this body. He didn’t want to live; he’d accepted his death, and that was that. He should have been left to die, but here he stood, after nearly a year of slow, painful recovery. His body still ached, at that; he didn’t need a mirror to know exactly where his body ended and the robotics began, because the skin there burned with the ice of the metal, groaned at every slight movement which rubbed steel against tender skin, screamed at even the gentlest touch of cloth.

Sleeping was impossible, but he refused to go uncovered, to let the world see his mutilation.

Except in moments like this; he _ needed _ to see himself, needed to remind his soul of everything he hated, needed to pick out every line and every scar until he was so hot with rage that he could stand to face the day.

It was ritual now, to rise from another restless night, strip and face the mirror, trace with disgusted eyes the marks he’d memorised so long ago, nurture the burning embers of fury until at last he could turn away to dress and meet with his team.

He hated Blackwatch. Despised it with every fiber of his being; they had resurrected him, torn him apart and fitted him back together to do their bidding, to be their weapon. Their only redemption from his wrath... If he was to be a weapon, he would be that. A lethal piece of machinery, sharpened edge so deadly that none could stand before him.

But he’d had no chance yet to unleash his fury as he so desperately desired. His body was too tender yet, his organic muscles weak and his cybernetic muscles untrained; it had been only weeks since he was reluctantly allowed to begin training, and he hated being confined to so few hours a day in the training center, unable to release his growing frustration and not yet ready to join the others on missions.

Today would be the day, though. They could not hold him any longer, and as he stepped into the meeting room, gaze hidden behind his visor but sweeping the room to pin on his superior, Gabriel Reyes, he knew they knew it too.

Today, he would finally be unleashed to wreak havoc on their enemies, and the world would know that Shimada Genji still lived, Death Incarnate.

♟♟♟

HARMONY

Discord. Before that day, Zenyatta had never seen someone so consumed.

All souls held both Harmony and Discord within them, ever battling for superiority, to determine whether a person shared Light or Darkness with the world around them. Most held a slightly uneven balance, tipped just noticeably to one side or the other; those warm with Harmony making up the gentle givers and those heavy with Discord making up the hardened takers.

Some were so burdened with Discord that they tried to snuff out whatever Light they found. Others, like Zenyatta himself, along with his Shambali brethren, were so attuned to Harmony that Discord had been relegated to a tiny corner of themselves, all but impossible to notice.

This man, however... At first glance, Zenyatta saw nothing _ but _ Discord, no trace of the warmth that resided in all beings, human or omnic. The man had become a monster, placid until provoked, like a feral dragon protecting its horde.

Zenyatta felt a momentary urge to write him off, to assume him unredeemable. He promptly scolded himself for that thought, reaching into the Iris for the strength to push down his Discord and feel only Harmony for this man, this ragged beast in need of a gentle touch. That he came to them covered in blood, both his own and that of others, would not dissuade Zenyatta; he was determined to find at least a shred of Harmony within the man, no matter what it took.

And so it began.

♙♙♙

“I understand your need for privacy, my friend,” Zenyatta hums softly as he enters the small, spartan room containing the beast, “but you are still injured and require aide; you should not lock your door.”

“I require nothing,” the man, who still refuses to share his name, growls, already hidden behind his armour.

He has not seemed to realise yet that Zenyatta has already seen him bare, seen the horrendous scarring of his body and the pieces of him that no longer remain. Zenyatta has not yet mentioned it.

A small part of him wants to remind the man that he was badly in need of medical assistance when he arrived, that in spite of his cybernetic parts, he is still at base a human and cannot live without sustenance.

“Will you eat today?” Zenyatta asks instead, calmly setting the tray of food he brought on the tiny table in the corner.

“No,” the man grunts.

“Mm. And your injuries?” he inquires lightly, removing blood-stained bandages from the table and placing a new roll of bandages beside the tray, along with a flower from the garden.

“Fine,” the man replies, as usual. Then he surprises Zenyatta by adding, “I’m leaving today.”

For a moment, Zenyatta goes still, processing that statement, and then he busies himself rearranging the items on the table to give himself a reason to remain.

“You are not ready,” he says simply, knowing full well that in doing so, he has trodden on the beast’s tail and will incur its wrath. But where his brethren decline to face the cloud of Discord that smothers all it touches, Zenyatta fears only that he will be unleashing this cloud back into the world if he does not find a hint of Harmony soon.

“You do not have a say,” the man growls lowly, warning. “You cannot tell me when I may leave, or where I may go.”

“You were gravely injured,” Zenyatta points out finally, turning to face the beast. “You are still in need of much healing.”

“I am in need of nothing!” Where he had been seated in mock meditation on his simple bed, the man leaps to his feet now, deadly with hissing anger, and a tremour of fear sparks through Zenyatta’s wires. Only the strength of the Iris keeps him from showing that fear, soothes it to a gentler sort of caution. “You know nothing of me, monk! Do not dare to tell me what I need or do not need; I am my own person and I will not be held prisoner!”

_ So there lies the seat of your anger _, Zenyatta thinks, relaxing now that he has something with which he can work.

“You are no prisoner here, my friend,” he says gently. “But I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave with so many open wounds.”

“I am healed,” the man snarls viciously, hand dropping to grasp habitually at the empty space where once had been the handle of his wakizashi, now lying in their vault along with his katana due to their pacifistic rules.

“I am not talking about the wounds of your body,” Zenyatta cuts in before he can say anything else. The interjection makes him hesitate, and Zenyatta’s gaze goes to his empty sheath. “If you truly wish to leave, I will allow it. On one condition.”

“I make no deals with _ machines _.” The venom in his voice would sting if Zenyatta did not know the self-loathing behind it.

“Make that two,” Zenyatta amends, entirely ignoring him. “First, you will train with me. You are in need of an outlet, and your edges need to be rounded; meditation will help with that, as will hand-to-hand combat.”

“Meditation?” the man sneers. Zenyatta has no doubt those scarred features are twisted in disgust beneath his mask.

“Second, if ever you are to best me in combat, outside of training, then your weapons shall be returned to you immediately and someone will escort you back to the city.”

A very long, very heavy silence falls. The man has yet to make any disparaging response, and Zenyatta dares to hope he has appealed to the beast’s need for release, for a chance to bare fangs without endangering anyone.

“Best a monk?” the man says finally, a faint and reluctant note of interest buried beneath scepticism. “In combat?”

He makes an abortive move, as though to lunge at Zenyatta, who sees through the feint and remains still, unmoving. Then he really does lunge, and Zenyatta’s lithe frame twists out of the way with surprising ease.

More surprising, he brings his elbow down on the man’s neck with a strike too quick to avoid and too sharp to ignore; he stumbles into the table, nearly knocking the tray from it, half catching himself against the wall and whirling in startled readiness.

“Even a monk can fight when necessary,” Zenyatta notes lightly, steepling his fingers in front of himself. “Pacifism it not an ignorance of defense, merely a desire to avoid physicality. Are we in agreement?”

The man doesn’t reply, stunned speechless by Zenyatta’s display. Taking that as acceptance, Zenyatta nods and turns to leave.

“Monk.”

“Tekhartha Zenyatta,” he corrects, pausing in the doorway.

“Why are you doing this?” There’s no anger in the man’s voice now, only frustration and confusion.

Interesting.

“Because I know there is Harmony inside you,” Zenyatta explains. “One day, I will find it. But to do so, _ you _ must face your demons. If I can help, I am honour-bound to do so, and I can see no better way than this.”

“Honour-bound,” the man echoes, an edge of wistfulness beneath his faint awe, and for the first time since his arrival, the Discord within him swirls a little less violently.

It isn’t much, but Zenyatta sees it for the victory it is, however small, and he hums pleasantly as he leaves, feeling for the first time as though there truly is hope for the beast.

♙♙♙

“_ Kuso!! _” Genji barely catches himself on the frail railing of the walkway between towers of the monastery, but the metal appendages that have replaced his hands slip against weathered stone and his precarious balance shifts toward danger.

Inhumanly strong hands grasp his arm and shoulder, preventing him from falling off the walkway and down to the paving stones of the path below.

“Perhaps we ought to revisit the terms of this agreement,” the monk says thoughtfully, carefully pulling him to his feet and ensuring his balance before releasing him entirely. “It will not due to injure yourself further in your attempts to best me.”

“I do not need a handicap!” Genji snaps, frustration brimming.

Five weeks. For five weeks, he has tried and failed to best the monk. He has tried as many head-on attempts as he can imagine, only for the monk’s omnic strength and unusual flexibility to make such tactics useless. He has tried sneaking up on the monk, only to discover the monk’s preternatural sense of his surroundings. No matter what he does, the damned monk is ready for him, and fully capable of rendering his greatest strengths absolutely impotent.

Worse, their ‘training’ twice a week feels utterly condescending in the face of such competence; more than once, Genji has planted the monk on the floor during training, only for those same techniques to fail stupendously at any other time.

“I was not suggesting a handicap,” the monk says gently. More condescension. “Merely a revision of the guidelines; a marking of boundaries... The walkways are dangerous enough without the added possibility of a mistake on either of our parts, especially with the coming winter. Shall we mark it a non-combat zone? The kitchens and garden as well.”

“Why, so you can retreat to those areas and make it impossible for me to find and best you?” Genji snarls, itching to feel one or the other of his blades in hand.

“Of course not, my dear,” the monk chuckles softly, the gentle sound soothing and irritating all at once. “I certainly have no need to enter the kitchens but to prepare food for you; I doubt either of us would enjoy a slip of the knife. The gardens are too beautiful for me to allow our rivalry to mark it, and many of those plants have been blooming for longer than either of us have lived times ten; Mondatta would never forgive me if I took no precautions to protect it. And as I said, these walkways can be quite dangerous.” He cocks his head, the giant mala beads around his neck spinning more quickly on their axises, a motion Genji has come to associate with amusement because he refuses to try and read the monk’s voice. “If it pleases you, I will avoid these areas as much as possible until the agreement is settled.”

“...And training?” Genji asks in spite of himself, hating that even as frustrating as they are, those sessions are his favourite parts of the week.

“Of course besting me will not count during training,” the monk hums, turning and tipping his head for Genji to walk with him. “I would rather avoid reducing that time; it has done wonders for your temper.”

“Temper?” Genji growls, falling into step beside the slightly taller monk.

“Would you rather me call it bitchiness?” the monk teases.

The first time the monk said something so outlandish, Genji was unable to speak for several astonished minutes, and for days after, he found himself staring at the monk, trying to figure out how someone so... pius could be so... normal.

Now, however, he merely growls in mild warning.

“I am not a bitch.”

“Of course, _ I _ know that, my dear,” the monk laughs. “But you are hardly doing much to dissuade others. I rather enjoy it, the bitchy side of you.”

“Something else to mock?” Genji scoffs without meaning to.

Every now and again, it happens; the filter between his brain and tongue dissolves beneath the monk’s coaxing words, and every bitter thing he thinks is spoken before he can stop it.

“Mock, no. Tease, yes,” the monk hums, sounding oddly pleased.

Genji berates himself for paying attention to the monk’s tone, and without another word, he steps away, swinging over the railing and clambering nimbly down the support to the ground below. As he heads for the nearest entrance to the monastery so he can return to his room and plan his next attempt at besting the monk, he feels the weight of the eyeless gaze on his back like a physical touch, one which causes the faintest of shivers. He tries to convince himself it was the chill of the oncoming winter, but inside, he knows.

Whatever Zenyatta sees in him, he can only hope that one day he sees it as well.

♟♟♟

The meditation has helped, surprisingly.

In his first weeks, Genji refused to join the monks in their meditation, but after a quiet day when he could no longer think of ways to best Zenyatta, spent instead on a walkway staring mindlessly into the distance, he found himself feeling strangely at peace. The feeling had been so at odds with his usual anger and bitterness that he’d been at a loss and had sought out Zenyatta, allowing his bafflement to subvert his pride and let him ask the monk how to meditate.

To his credit, Zenyatta neither laughed nor teased; rather, he seemed delighted by Genji’s interest, and even now, whenever Genji appears at his door in the middle of the night, he hums in joy and does not hesitate to welcome Genji into his room to sit and meditate.

He is a gentle teacher, Genji has realised; he does not force learning, only encourages, tests the waters to see how much Genji is willing to do, backs off before Genji’s temper has a chance to flare.

It’s almost disappointing at times that Genji has no excuse to explode, to let loose his rage on the monk. But, in the same breath, it is very much a relief to be around someone who knows exactly what to say to soothe him.

Training with Zenyatta has become less frustrating, and more of a challenge; the monk no longer allows him to win consistently, and the closure of the gap between the monk he fights during training and the monk he cannot hope to defeat elsewise lessens his hatred of Zenyatta. He no longer despises the monk, but he does not recognise the emotion that remains now, and he keeps the confusion to himself, maintaining a brusk air around the monk.

“You have come a long way, my dear,” Zenyatta says suddenly after a particularly grueling training session that has left Genji breathless and sore but oddly content.

“A long way?” he echoes, still lying on the ground where he landed when Zenyatta knocked him down during their last engagement.

“Mm,” the monk hums, crouching beside him. “Discord no longer consumes you, and I no longer have to search for Harmony in your soul. I am proud of your progress, dear; you are healing well.”

The pet name, a substitute for the name Genji has refused to share, touches something within him, as it has many times recently, warming him from the inside out. He has wondered at times if he should tell the monk who he really is, but fear that he will never again hear the pet name has stalled his tongue every time.

“I have had a most persistent doctor,” he notes wryly, content to lie where he is with the monk looking down at him.

The laugh that shakes Zenyatta’s frame doubles the warmth within Genji, and he closes his eyes, basking in it for the few moments it lingers.

“I see your humour has improved as well,” the monk muses, pleased, as he stands. “Come; I will prepare your dinner while you bathe.”

“Is that a polite way of telling me I stink?” Genji scoffs, taking the offered hand and allowing the monk to pull him to his feet.

“Fortunately,” Zenyatta chuckles, leading the way out of the padded training room, “I do not have sufficient olfactory equipment to know, confined as you are in that suit. Likewise, I am not the one subjected to your scent, however delightful it might be.”

A smile twitches at Genji’s lips, and he blanks for a moment in surprise; when was the last time he smiled? He can’t remember, so it must have been before...

He stops walking, and Zenyatta pauses a few steps after, turning back to look curiously at him.

“Are you alright, my dear?” the monk asks gently, breaking through the cloud of surprise.

“I... yes,” Genji answers, realising that for the first time, he truly is. In a spur of the moment decision, he blurts, “After dinner, come to my room; there is something I must show you.”

Abruptly embarrassed and fearful, he steps quickly past Zenyatta, giving the monk no chance to speak before he is gone, around a corner and down the corridor and back to his room without pause. With the sturdy wood firmly closed behind his back, Genji stands in breathless shock at his own audacity; even after six years, is he really ready to unveil his scars? He has not seen them himself for nearly three months, but for occasional glimpses while bathing; not since that last day he stood before the mirror at Blackwatch readying himself for a mission that would go awry and lead him to seek a place of healing.

The thought of Blackwatch brings simmering anger to the surface, but not the same anger on which he suckled for so many years; he does not despise them at all now, rather his anger is toward the wasted time he spent loathing life when he should have been grateful for a second chance.

The realisation strikes him with such force that he all but collapses, resting against the door and staring in blank shock at the wall.

Confusion and fear bubble up in his chest and suddenly he has trouble breathing. Huffing shallow gasps of unease, he scrambles to the bed, unsure why but needing to move. Sitting on the bed doesn’t help, a restless anxiety cloying inside him and pushing him to pace the length of the room, twitchy and breathless.

Panic at his own reaction tightens a vice around his chest and he claws uselessly at his cybernetic arms, trying in vain to ease the itch beneath the surface.

Slender mechanical hands cover his own, halting the frantic motions, and he looks up at the placid faceplate in front of him, for a moment too lost in himself to recognise the familiar features.

“Breathe,” the monk commands softly, moving one of Genji’s hands to his own chest, where his heart pounds against what remain of his ribs. “Breathe, my dear; deep breath in... slow breath out...”

The monk, though omnic with no need to breathe, simulates it, chest rising and falling in tempo with his words, and Genji gratefully allows his mind to go blank, to obey and follow the rhythm until his heartbeat settles and the panic recedes.

“Better?” Zenyatta asks gently, hand still pressing Genji’s to his chest.

“...Yes,” Genji answers, ashamed now at his lack of control. “I... I do not know what happened to me. I- I panicked.”

“You feared revealing your scars?” the monk asks, neither of them moving yet.

“No, I- Perhaps,” Genji admits, searching for the truth and allowing it to form on his tongue. “I... I fear the end of what I know.”

“The end of what?” Zenyatta presses.

“...Anger,” Genji whispers, more vulnerable than he has ever been, surprised to find he does not hate it; rather, it’s freeing, and a relieved sob catches in his throat, tears burning behind his eyes as emotion wells up. “I have known nothing but anger for so long; I- I do not know how to live without it.”

“You will learn,” Zenyatta says confidently, raising his hand to tip Genji’s chin up, hidden gaze meeting eyeless gaze. “This is the wound I have sought to heal since you arrived. At last, it is being flushed clean, free to heal. Anger is a poison, an infection that takes root deep within one’s soul and grows, leaves room for nothing else. Weed it out, and life will spread within you once again.”

“I-” Genji turns away, mindful of his scars and how they came to be. “I cannot...”

“You _ can _,” Zenyatta insists, taking his hands. “I will help you.”

“You cannot help me,” Genji scoffs, bitter and broken. “You know nothing of me; you do not know what I have done, who I am. You do not even know my name.”

“I need no name to see who you are, my dear,” the monk persists. “I see the Harmony within you, the lust for life blooming in your soul. You are _ alive _.”

“I am a corpse,” Genji retorts, yanking his hands from the monk’s and reaching up to remove his mask, tossing it aside so Zenyatta can see the monster he has become. “I am a dead man walking, awaiting my final death. There is no life within me; it was lost the night my own brother sought to murder me.”

For a long moment, the revelation rings in the quiet solitude of the tiny stone room, and with every passing second, Genji can imagine the horror and disgust rising in the monk, until at last he turns away, unable to bear Zenyatta’s silence.

He is unprepared for the gentle touch of cool metal fingers against his cheek, turning him back toward the monk, unprepared for the glowing warmth that pours from him in unseen waves.

“You are no dead man, my dear,” Zenyatta says softly. “You are no monster. You are scarred and broken, in great need of healing, but you are no mindless beast fighting to die. I saw your scars the day you arrived; I carried you inside and removed your armour, tended your injuries. I knew from the start the wounds you bear, and still I see only a man, struggling to become whole. I would help you, if you let me; I want nothing more than to see you shine bright, at peace with yourself and with the world.”

The tears cannot be stopped, no matter how Genji tries; he closes his eyes and leans into the generous hand that offers so much more than he ever deserved.

“My name,” he whispers, clinging to the hope Zenyatta offers, “is Shimada Genji.”

♟♟♟

Zenyatta never thought he’d get this far, and yet, here he is. Genji sits across from him on one of the walkways, still and quiet, his soul at rest. Discord still clings to him, but the Harmony within has grown exponentially; in truth, Zenyatta has never seen such expansive growth, and a warm, gentle pride in his own part stirs through his wires. 

“Is meditation merely an excuse to stare at me?” Genji asks suddenly, lips twitching in the faintest of smiles. His eyes remain closed, and Zenyatta purrs his amusement, unbothered that he has been caught.

“No; staring is merely a bonus.”

The faint smile spreads, almost coming to a realisation but not quite. The openness of Genji’s features, no longer hidden while they are alone, never fails to fill Zenyatta with joy. His circuits hum delightedly when Genji opens his eyes and honours him with a look akin to fondness.

“You are quite shameless for a monk,” he notes blatantly, earning a pure, contented laugh.

“Honesty and flattery are often found hand in hand,” Zenyatta returns easily. “I have no reason to feel shame, so I will assume that a compliment.” Genji scoffs, rolling his eyes, and returns to his meditation.

“Ah, Zenyatta,” a warm voice greets, interrupting the peaceful moment which follows. Mondatta stands at the entrance to one of the towers between which the walkway stretches, and Zenyatta carefully keeps himself between his Master and Genji to hide the man’s scars as he scrambles for his mask.

“Good morning, Mondatta,” he greets in return, standing.

“Oh, I see you are busy; forgive me,” the elder monk says, bowing apologetically and turning.

“No, please,” Genji speaks up, surprising both omnics. “I will not keep you from your duties.” He gestures for Zenyatta to go, and a burst of pride courses through the monk.

“We will still train this evening,” he promises, already following Mondatta. Genji nods agreement and heads the opposite direction down the walkway.

“He has changed,” Mondatta prompts after a moment of silence.

“He has,” Zenyatta agrees, pleased.

“You have taken quite an interest in his welfare.”

“Should I not? We are all one within the Iris; to deny him is to deny our own weakness.”

“I do not wish to dissuade you,” Mondatta says simply, “but not all are redeemable, and some may heal only to shatter once again, spreading their illness further.”

“You do not trust him?” Zenyatta asks warily.

“I trust only the Iris. Men and omnics alike are too fickle to trust without thorough cause. Do not give up for the sake of my own caution, however... I only wish that you would take caution of your own; if indeed he shatters, you will be caught in the maelstrom that follows, and that is not something I wish to see.”

“I have faith, Master,” Zenyatta says firmly. “Faith in him, and in the purpose for which the Iris has seen fit to bestow on him a second chance at life.”

“Then your belief is stronger than mine,” Mondatta chuckles wryly. “Perhaps I am too old and jaded.”

“You are neither old nor jaded, Master,” Zenyatta laughs. “You are right to be cautious; I rely on your judgment more often than my own. We shall see what the future has in store for our new friend.”

♙♙♙

"Are you sure you don't mind?" The unease in Genji's voice speaks volumes; Zenyatta lays his hand on the man's arm assuringly.

"I am honoured that you wish to accompany me," he hums. "Your presence delights me, as does your offer to assist my errands."

"You like having a mule?" Genji quips reactively, drawing a low chuckle from the monk that would be louder were they not in public.

"I will remind you in the future that you first referred to yourself as an ass," Zenyatta teases, shifting his arm to lace it through Genji's. When the man cocks his head slightly, Zenyatta reads the confusion from him and purrs. "It would not do to lose you in a marketplace unfamiliar to you; I will not lose track of you this way." Genji snorts in amusement but doesn't protest; he moves closer and matches his step to Zenyatta's.

The market is as busy as ever, bustling bodies bouncing between stalls in an eager dance, searching for the best of deals. Zenyatta, a familiar face to many of the merchants, nods his greetings at the many calls of 'good morning!' and 'hello, Zen!'

Harmony resides here, and Zenyatta adores the cheerful bustle as always. He guides Genji through the crowd to a stall supervised by an older woman whose heart glows with Harmony but whose face speaks of age-old wariness.

"Good morning, Zenyatta," the woman greets in Nepali, features softening almost to a smile.

"Peace be upon you, Soneeya," Zenyatta greets in kind, releasing Genji to embrace the woman. "It has been some time since you last graced us with your presence; have you been well?"

"My daughter had a baby," Soneeya explains proudly. "He is the most beautiful child... I taught her the things I learned caring for her, until she grew tired of my hovering and sent me on my way."

"Congratulations!" Zenyatta cheers, laughing. "Your presence is ever welcome here, dear Soneeya, especially when you bring such delightful treats."

"You say that as though you can taste," Soneeya smirks.

“The treats are not for me,” Zenyatta chuckles, gesturing vaguely at his companion. “My friend is human at his core.”

“Your friend?” The sceptical quirk of Soneeya’s brow builds a mild curiosity to see what Genji is doing to cause it, and Zenyatta turns, realising belatedly that the man is no longer beside him.

“Genji?” He glances around the marketplace, searching out the distinctive green-accented steel bodysuit that has come to be so familiar. He spots it at the far end, the man deep in what appears to be quite the heated discussion with another man, the latter outfitted in a rather garish yet intriguing outfit that, if Zenyatta’s memory serves, originates in the American Southwest.

Discord has surged up within Genji, shredding his Harmony to fractured bits, and his body language is terse, defensive. Sorrow wells up in Zenyatta’s wires, and he moves without much thought, intent only on soothing his companion.

“...not goin’ back?” the stranger is asking, incredulity heavy in his thickly accented voice.

“I no longer wish to be an object of pain and misery,” Genji states firmly, his tone low and sharp with all too familiar bitterness. “Surely you understand that if you have left as well.”

“Well, yeah,” the foreigner agrees hesitantly, “but you were, like... obsessed wi-”

“Obsessed?” Genji snarls, cutting him off. The foreigner falters, raising gloved hands in a motion of mollification.

“Okay, maybe that ain’t the right word...”

“I do not care what word you use,” Genji huffs impatiently. “It was toxic, to me and to everyone around me.”

A strange sort of pride blossoms in Zenyatta’s chest at those words, and he stops several yards away still, feigning interest in whatever wares are being sold from the stall in front of him.

“Damn, Genji...” the foreigner mutters after a moment of shock. “You’ve really changed, haven’t ya? What have you been up to these last months got you all... self-respectin’ all the sudden?”

“I would take offense if I did not like you so much,” Genji scoffs, startling the stranger further. A short pause, and Genji proceeds to stun the foreigner and Zenyatta both; “Where are you staying tonight? I am living at the monastery for the moment, and I am sure my... teacher would not mind if you joined us for a night.”

Zenyatta recovers first, delighted by the surge of Harmony within his self-proclaimed pupil; stepping away from the stall, he closes the remaining gap and lays a hand on Genji’s shoulder, doing his best to give the impression of a smile for the foreigner.

“I would not mind in the slightest,” he hums pleasantly. “However, I can only speak for my Master enough to say that the monastery is open to all who seek healing.” He says nothing of the deep-seated Discord in the foreigner’s soul, almost but not quite hidden beneath a veneer of hopeful Harmony.

“I- oh, well, I- I suppose every man needs healin’ at some point or another,” the foreigner says carefully, taken aback by Zenyatta’s appearance and balanced between wariness of a stranger and concern for a friend.

“Indeed,” Zenyatta agrees simply, turning away. “Please feel free to approach the monastery whenever you are ready; Genji and I have a few more errands to complete.”

♙♙♙

Zenyatta has yet to chide him, and truthfully, Genji likes that less than the idea of being chided.

“Are you not angry with me?” he blurts finally, after the errands have been completed and he bears only half of the load on their return.

“Angry?” Zenyatta echoes lightly. “Why would I be angry, my dear?” The pet name soothes some of Genji’s worry, but not enough.

“I ran off, and I invited McCree to the monastery without seeking your permission.”

“Is that his name?” Zenyatta muses. “McCree. It sounds so very American; how delightful!”

“Zenyatta,” Genji groans, seeing the monk’s teasing for what it is. “Please; I am serious.”

“Genji,” the monk returns, ceasing his steps to face the ninja. “Have I ever given you cause to believe I would not be honest in my anger toward you? For that matter, have I ever made you feel as though I were frustrated with you? If I have, please tell me, so I might rectify my mistake.”

“No,” Genji admits reluctantly, faltering at how wonderful it was to hear his name in the monk’s gentle voice. “But I-”

“Genji.” He stops, anticipating a lecture now, but Zenyatta simply nods with a faint hum and continues.

Perplexed and uneasy, Genji follows, and the remainder of the walk is taken in silence. The silence continues while Genji helps unpack the bags and put things away, and even until he finds himself assisting in the preparation of a meal for two.

“You are not concerned for the safety of the monks?” he asks, breaking the silence at last while in the midst of peeling potatoes.

“Should I be?” Zenyatta returns lightly, unworried, and takes the peeled potato from Genji, replacing it with a freshly washed potato to peel.

Genji thinks back over all the times he has attempted and failed to best the monk. Even on his best day, McCree could rarely beat Genji; it’s highly unlikely he’d be any danger to Zenyatta.

“...No,” he admits reluctantly, still upset.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Zenyatta places his hand on Genji’s arm, stopping his progress on the potato.

“Genji. There is nothing to concern yourself with,” he says gently. “We are more than capable of defending ourselves, and I trust you would not invite evil into our home. But... you have come so far from where you were, and I fear the man, this piece of your past, is threatening to undo so much of your progress... You cannot dwell on the past, Genji; you must look to the future and decide who you are to be.”

Another moment of silence, and then Genji releases a long sigh, placing the potato and the peeling knife on the table to remove his mask. Turning it in his hands, he runs his fingers lightly over the visor and traces a scratch in the surface of the metal.

“I thought it was my time,” he says, voice soft. “I felt death’s embrace and my only thought was that I deserved it; I deserved to die. I surrendered to it... And they brought me back. I wanted nothing more than to die, and it was denied to me. I was furious... At my brother for not killing me properly, at Blackwatch for bringing me back... But most of all, I was angry at myself, for being too cowardly to end my own life. McCree... We were partners on several missions, especially my first, when I was still weak, recovering. I was reckless, lashing out in my anger and hatred, and more than once I was gravely injured. Every time, I thought I had finally done enough to earn the death I longed for, and every time, McCree dragged me back to Blackwatch to be patched up and confined for my own safety. I hated it. I hated him; _ despised _ him...”

The quiet following his hesitation is breathless, patient, waiting for him to continue, and he dares to look up at the faceplate that’s become so familiar to him.

“The day I came here, I thought him dead,” he explains timidly. “I came here to let someone know where to find his body. Despite everything, he deserved an honourable burial, I thought, and I held on only for that purpose. I _ wanted _ my wounds to be too much; I hoped they would... When I woke, again, from a second death, I wanted so dearly to slit my own throat, and I was furious that you had taken my weapons. No matter how I try, death will not have me.” His gaze falls again to the mask. “Nor, it seems, will death have McCree. He cared for my life when I did not, and I owe it to him to return the favour.”

Cool metal fingers gently turn his chin upward, caress his cheek softly.

“You have grown _ so _ much, my dear,” Zenyatta hums proudly. “I am so very proud of you. It is for this very reason that I bear no ill will toward McCree; your friend is mine, and he is more than welcome with me.”

♟♟♟

Jesse McCree looks as awkward and uncomfortable as Genji feels, but to his credit, he does his best to turn up the charm when Zenyatta and Mondatta greet him at the entrance to the monastery, Genji standing anxiously in the background.

“Evening, folks,” McCree smiles when Mondatta steps aside and gestures for him to enter. “Don’t mean to impose... Genji invited me?”

“Of course,” Mondatta nods smoothly. “We have already prepared food and a room for you. You are welcome to join our nightly meditation, but it is not required. Please, make yourself comfortable; if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Oh, thanks... Er, name’s McCree. Jesse McCree.” He puts out a hand uncertainly, and flushes slightly when the monks bow instead.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McCree,” Mondatta hums. “I am the head monk, Mondatta, and this is my brother, Zenyatta. He has been seeing to the recovery of your friend.”

“It has been an honour and a delight,” Zenyatta purrs. “He is a most adept student.”

Genji tries not to take too much pleasure in those words, particularly when Mondatta cocks his head ever so slightly. Fortunately the head monk says nothing, merely excuses himself to his duties and disappears down the corridor, leaving Zenyatta to care for McCree.

“Genji!” the cowboy beams when he catches sight of the ninja. Genji smiles behind his mask and steps forward when McCree falters, caught between his usual method of hugging friends and holding back because that friend is Genji. McCree stiffens in surprise at the embrace, but it only takes him a moment to return it, laughing softly. “Glad you’re okay, buddy.”

“I could say the same of you,” Genji scoffs. “I believed you dead. How did you survive?”

“Got the luck o’ the devil, my friend,” McCree grins. “Ain’t dying that easy if I can help it. What about you? How’d you get out of there?”

“...The Iris is not done with me yet,” Genji replies, glancing at Zenyatta, who perks, the lights on his forehead glowing softly with pride and the mala beads around his neck spinning quickly with joy. Warm with happiness for that reaction, Genji struggles not to bounce as he turns and heads for the kitchen. “Come; we will eat and catch up, and then you can rest.”

Those must be the magic words, because McCree lights up and immediately begins chattering pleasantly about everything he’s done since their last mission, focusing mostly on the places he’s been and the food he’s eaten; in spite of everything, Genji is pleased to see the cowboy has not lost his unceasing tongue.

The meal has been finished and the dishes cleaned before the tone of conversation becomes serious.

"Blackwatch is falling apart," McCree says grimly when Genji inquires of their teammates. "Reyes... I dunno what that guy got into, but he's got a thirst for blood that ain't got nothin' to do with justice anymore. Sombra skipped a while back, and last I heard, she might be in with Talon now."

"Talon?" Genji breathes, horrified. While Blackwatch may not have had the most legal of methods, they had tried to maintain a morality of justice first; Talon cared little, if anything, about justice, instead bending to a quest for power.

"People kept dropping out left and right," McCree nods, "and when I heard the news about Sombra, I hightailed it before I got caught up in anything worse. I, uh..." He hesitates, glancing quickly at Zenyatta ― who sits calmly at the end of the table in seeming meditation, though his mala beads are twirling quickly in thought ― before deciding to go on anyway. "I got approached by a member of Overwatch the other day... 'S why I'm here, actually; swear I didn't know you were here or anything, but I was supposed to deliver a message to this monastery. Didn't mean to use you as an in or anything; catchin up with you and deliverin this message are two different things that just happen to coincide."

"I understand," Genji dismisses, far more concerned by the knowledge that Blackwatch is selling out to Talon than he is by McCree's revelation.

"You have a message for the monastery?" Zenyatta speaks up, addressing McCree for the first time since greeting him and proving that he has indeed been paying attention rather than meditating. Though perhaps the two are not mutually exclusive in Zenyatta's case.

"Er, I'm supposed to give it to, uh... What's his name? Mondatta? The head monk. Didn't think it was proper to butt in earlier and shove a note at him."

"Come with us to the nightly meditation," Genji suggests. "He leads it, and if we go early, there will be time to deliver your message before it begins."

"Sounds good to me," McCree agrees, looking at Zenyatta. "That okay? Don't wanna interrupt or anything."

"If Overwatch has a message for Master Mondatta, it will no doubt precede meditation on his part in any case; I do not see why it would not be acceptable to deliver said message before a scheduled meditation."

"Then it's settled," McCree smiles lightly. "Just let me go take off my spurs and shit so I don't disrupt anything by jingling like a pocket full o' change."

♟♟♟

Genji and his friend are surprisingly close, given the former's noted hatred in the past of the latter, and Zenyatta can think of no other reason than that McCree is a very forgiving person. The Harmony within their new guest has been tempered by years of grating Discord, but it is still very much present, which delights Zenyatta as much as it concerns him; McCree seems very much a trustworthy man, but his very existence threatens Genji's peace of mind, a veritable cyclone of good and bad, hope and sorrow, peace and violence that could well undermine every step toward healing that Genji has taken. Thus, Zenyatta elects to maintain a cordial distance from the American, keeping Genji firmly in his sight at all times, so that he might step in should anything happen.

The oddly chatty foreigner is noticeably quiet on the way to meditation, hand curled around a small, sealed paper missive, and Zenyatta finds himself hoping the message is not bad news.

"Good evening," Mondatta greets them, as he has been greeting everyone, at the door. "I am pleased you have decided to join us, Mr. McCree."

"Er, just here to watch, really," the American hedges uneasily.

"That is acceptable," Mondatta hums, amused. "Your curiosity is welcome. Please, find a seat."

Genji elbows McCree roughly, and the American grunts, clearing his throat and shifting back and forth on his feet.

"Actually, uh..." He can't seem to speak through the weighted pause, yet still manages to force the words out. "I... sort of have a message for you."

"Sort of?" Mondatta teases gently, easing some of the tension. McCree chuckles uneasily, relaxing only a bit.

"It's from Overwatch," he explains, holding out the paper. Mondatta doesn't respond immediately, and the tension doubles.

"...I see." Taking the message but not yet opening it, he gestures into the sanctuary. “Please.”

When McCree hesitates and Genji makes no move to intervene, Zenyatta takes initiative and leads the way, fortunately prompting the two to follow. He guides them to a position near the back of the room, where they will not be a distraction to others as they observe.

Or rather, as McCree observes; the moment Zenyatta seats himself on a cushion, Genji settles on the cushion beside him, reflecting his posture with the ease of countless practices. He has learned much, mostly through the many nights he has visited Zenyatta’s room, meekly requesting to be taught.

But there is much more yet to be learned, as he will see tonight; it is the first time he has joined the nightly meditation, and Zenyatta finds himself interested to see Genji's reaction to something a bit more intense than he is accustomed to.

Neither of Zenyatta's companions speak while the other monks ― mostly omnic, but a small handful human ― trickle in and claim whichever seats are still available closest to the front. Eventually all are present and Mondatta closes the door behind the last, ushering him to take a seat. Zenyatta watches him pause there at the door to read McCree's message, notes the way his master's frame tenses and then slumps. He very nearly stands to go speak with Mondatta, only to stop himself when the older monk pulls himself up, regal as ever, and strides to the front of the sanctuary.

"Good evening, my brothers and sisters," he speaks, drawing every gaze to him, though Zenyatta's has never left him. "I have received news this night of great importance. Here within our walls, and even to a great extent, throughout the village we call neighbours, we are in Harmony, human and omnic together. However, as we all well know, the world beyond is not so forgiving... Out there, omnics still suffer horrible atrocities at the hands of humanity, as often from ignorance as from intentional malice. Tonight I have received a most gracious request from the organisation known as Overwatch to be an omnic ambassador, to travel the world and speak out for equality amongst ours and theirs. Please, tonight I ask for a focused connection; lend me your hearts as we become one, and plead with the Iris for understanding. I do not believe myself worthy of so great a task, but if it is the will of the Iris, I will go."

A hesitant murmur begins, equal parts uneasy and hopeful. Though he says nothing, Zenyatta's soul vibrates in agreement; excitement for the possibilities wars with dread for his master's fate.

"Are you alright?" Genji asks quietly, pulling Zenyatta from his thoughts.

"I am," he answers simply, believing it to be true at least for this moment; he only hopes that tonight's meditation will soothe the conflict within him and make it true in the future as well.

"Let us not fret, my dear brothers and sisters," Mondatta says, silencing the murmur. "Form is temporary; spirit is eternal."

"All is one within the Iris," Zenyatta intones, one voice among many. He does his best to let go of his worries, recognising the Discord they have caused, and releasing it to sink into the Harmony of the Iris, of being one with his brothers and sisters.

The golden warmth of the Iris envelops them all, born from the Harmony of their souls as one, the unity of all beings. It is too precious an experience, too important to deny; all deserve this tranquility and connection.

As the warmth fades, leaving a contented afterglow in the hearts and souls of all present, it is clear; Mondatta will go.

♙♙♙

When Mondatta and McCree leave two days after, Zenyatta refuses to bear the mantle of head monk in his master's stead.

"It is not my place to stand in your footsteps," he says, "and I am not worthy to lead our brothers and sisters as you have; the title of head monk is, and always will be, yours. You will come back to us, your mission complete, and it will be waiting for you."

Mondatta hums faintly, reaching out to grip the side of Zenyatta's neck and drawing him in to touch faceplates in mutual respect. He does not say it, but Zenyatta is certain he knows of the disquiet that has since returned and taken root in his student's soul; Zenyatta's fear of losing his master is strong, and will not be dispelled easily, certainly not by words alone.

"I will miss you, my brother," Mondatta says instead. "I will miss everyone. Walk whole in the Iris..."

"And always strive for improvement," Zenyatta finishes, a welcome habit from days long past. Then, for Mondatta's hearing only; "Be safe, my master, and return to us."

Mondatta's only reply is a gentle squeeze of his shoulder as he moves away, waving and bidding farewell to those who have gathered to see him off.

Genji offers McCree one last quick hug before the American hurries to catch up with his charge. Zenyatta stands with his new student at the gate entrance until the pair are long gone and the other monks have dispersed to see to their duties.

"Master?" Genji speaks, the word a tentative offer on his tongue. Then, with a hurried note of embarrassment: "We should go inside; it is cold today and your joints will not be pleased with you if you do not warm up before training."

Zenyatta hesitates a moment more, aware that Discord has taken root in his soul and too fearful to weed it out just yet. But Genji needs him, and-

Abruptly, Genji drops low and sweeps a leg at Zenyatta's ankles. Reacting instinctively, Zenyatta steps lithely out of the way and jerks his knee forward, halting himself an instant before it connects with the side of Genji's mask.

For a single, breathless moment, neither moves. Then Genji chuckles wryly as Zenyatta slowly lowers his leg and watches the ninja stand.

"Even distracted and unsettled, you outdo me," Genji notes, unusually accepting of his loss. "I may never leave this monastery."

"You will," Zenyatta says, hiding his disappointment in himself for allowing the lapse of mind. "When you have healed. Come; your body is not equipped for the cold as mine is."

Inside, they part ways long enough for Zenyatta to change from his usual habit into clothes more suited for training, and then meet up again in the training room.

To Zenyatta's surprise, Genji seems to have little trouble defeating him even when he puts forth the effort to win. It occurs to him rather suddenly that Genji could easily have bested him outside, but _ chose _ not to.

When at last Zenyatta decides getting up again is pointless, Genji leans over him, breathing heavily but still thrumming with eager energy.

"You were right, Master; pain is indeed an excellent motivator," he says, a smirk in his voice.

"It is motivating me to remain on the floor," Zenyatta returns blandly, unbothered at the moment that his connection to his mala beads has been broken and they lie scattered across the floor; he will have to gather them later and reconnect one by one, but at the moment, all he desires is a moment of peace.

"Then perhaps I should join you," Genji hums, plopping down beside him and leaning back on his hands with a heavy sigh that melds into a low groan. "I may have tried a bit too hard to defeat you today; I have not ached so since..."

He trails off, his humour fading, and Zenyatta falters, the niggling sense of irritation within breaking apart under a wash of concern. He sits up, but says nothing for a moment.

"Since the days following my arrival," Genji says finally, somber now, but still oddly placid.

"You have been here many weeks," Zenyatta points out carefully. "You have learned much."

"Teach me to see as you do," Genji requests abruptly, turning to face him. "To recognise Harmony and Discord within a person."

"Why?" It is not the response Zenyatta meant to give, but the suddenness of the request caught him off guard.

"You are struggling; even I can see it, and I wish to help you as you have helped me. And, admittedly, I oft wished I could see McCree properly while he was here." Genji turns away then, sheepish. "I want to see the world as you do."

Zenyatta had not thought himself so obvious, but if even Genji can see his distress, it must be strong.

"...I will teach you," he says after a long moment of thought. "But it is a hard lesson to learn, and I will not go easy on you. Are you prepared for that?"

"I am, Master, please; I want to learn." The eagerness in his voice pleases Zenyatta, and he can imagine the way Genji's expression must have lit up.

"Good. We will begin this evening."

♙♙♙

Four months have passed, Genji realises abruptly, since he arrived. Four months and a handful of days. Winter has set in, cold and unforgiving, with a new layer of pristine white snow coming down seemingly every night.

It has become one of Genji's tasks, now that he is officially a student of the monastery, to ensure that the walkways are kept free of ice and excess snow, and it is a task he welcomes for the memories that he formed of his time with Zenyatta on them. He is nothing if not relentless, and his desire to preserve those memories gives rise to the need to ensure his job is done well and efficiently every day.

Now, as he stands at the end of the last walkway, reviewing his handiwork and thrumming with warmth that has as much to do with pride in his accomplishment as it does the effort he has exerted, he idly counts the days since he arrived.

How short a time it took to undo all the anger and hatred of so many years since his near death.

Well. Not all of it... There are still days when disgust bubbles up once again as he recalls the sting of his own brother's blade, when rage burns at Blackwatch for keeping him prisoner, a captive beast to do their bidding.

But more often than not, he is at peace with himself, and with the world. And never, ever has he allowed himself to take out that pain on Zenyatta; not since the day he finally shared his name.

"Are you finished, my dear?" The pet name warms Genji further as he faces his master, standing in the doorway to the tower.

"I am," he agrees, shuffling past Zenyatta into the warmth of the building. "Do you know, it has been over four months since I arrived? I have never felt the passage of time so clearly; every day is so full, it feels like a year."

"It has indeed been a while," Zenyatta hums, checking the door to be sure it's sealed tight to prevent warmth from leaking out. As he does, Genji eyes him, putting into practice everything he has learned to see the glow of Harmony within the monk, to catch a glimpse of the sluggish swirl of Discord deep, deep within his master's soul.

He has not yet told Zenyatta of how much he can see; an odd terror springs up whenever he considers it, fear that he is learning too quickly and that his time with Zenyatta will end soon. He knows it does not have to be so; after all, Zenyatta himself has stayed beside his own master all this time. But the fear, irrational though it may be, prevents him from speaking even so.

"You must be hungry after so much work," Zenyatta hums, servos whirring audibly to keep warm the parts of him that cannot function cold. The fingers he touches lightly to the side of Genji's neck are chilled from the momentary exposure even through the soft canvas covering his damaged skin. “Come; Alixanni has made warm drinks for everyone.”

Genji is turning with him, ready to tease and ask if omnics can drink anything, when a dull, hollow sound permeates the tower; a ringing gong that Genji has never heard before.

“What-” he begins, curious.

“Follow me,” Zenyatta cuts in, an unusually sharp edge to his voice that Genji has also never heard. Perplexed and worried by the rise of Discord within his master, Genji follows him quickly down the tower and through corridors bustling with monks preparing for something.

A sinking feeling tugs at his gut when he realises a few of the monks are carrying weapons. The feeling doubles when Zenyatta slides two fingers into a port beside a huge, sturdy wooden door; the red circle around the port turns green and the door clunks, sweeping open to reveal a vault of weaponry ranging from daggers to swords to guns to lasers. 

“We are under attack?” Genji breathes, chest aching.

“There are organisations, large and small, who despise omnics and seek to destroy us at every turn,” Zenyatta says grimly, striding to the back of the vault and opening a case. “This is not the first time we have been besieged, and unfortunately, it is unlikely to be the last.” Lifting a familiar pair of weapons from the case, he turns to Genji, holding them out. “It is your choice to fight, Genji. Will you join me?”

He can feel the thrum of the dragon bound to his katana, begging to reconnect. His heart skips at the thought of holding his blades once more, an opportunity he had thought would have to wait; part of him fears becoming the monster he was, but that part is quickly overwhelmed by the excitement of seeing Zenyatta at full power, of fighting alongside him.

Taking the blades with a reverent bow, Genji breathes a sigh of relief to feel his dragon surge within him, the spirit making him whole at last; it is a feeling he has missed, one he has not had the pleasure of since his youth.

“It would be an honour to protect your home, Master,” he whispers, awed at once by the chance to fight alongside Zenyatta and by the return of a sensation he thought permanently lost since his near death.

“Genji,” Zenyatta chides gently, drawing him up with a hand under his chin. “This is your home as well, for as long as you wish it.”

“Then it will be an honour to fight at your side,” Genji says, thumping a fist to his chest. “Lead me to battle, Master.”

♟♟♟

The monastery is a curiosity in and of itself, and only now does Genji see the wisdom of making such a fortress the home of the Shambali monks; the high, sturdy walls hold back a fair sized force of soldiers armed with all manner of weapons, including a siege tower and a battering ram.

“With Master Mondatta gone, leadership falls to you, Brother Zenyatta,” one of the monks states the moment they reach the wall overlooking the gate, where the soldiers below are positioning their ram.

“I do not like it,” Zenyatta huffs, “but the will of the Iris is not always our pleasure. Do you have any suggestions, Genji?”

“I do not know the talents of all within these walls,” Genji hums, eying the force below, “but I would as soon avoid direct conflict; they outnumber us by a fair few.”

“Four-to-one,” the other monk, human and younger than Genji, agrees. “And we do not kill.”

“Unless there is no other option,” Zenyatta corrects. “There will be no negotiating with these people; they will overwhelm us or they will die trying. We must find another way, or countless lives will be lost this day.”

“We await your decision,” the young monk says.

“...A battle of champions?” Genji suggests thoughtfully into the moment of quiet that follows. Silence meets his offer, broken by the shouts below as the soldiers line up the ram at the solid wooden gates.

“You want one of ours to meet one of theirs in battle?” the young monk frowns.

“All suggestions are valid, Kiera,” Zenyatta says lightly, considering. “We have not had a tournament in the monastery in years; it was once a friendly pastime but has been lost to more important matters. Our strengths have changed, and even so, Mondatta was undefeated; without him, we are lacking crucial strength for such a method.”

“Not even if you were to fight, Brother?” Kiera asks, frown deepening. Intrigued, Genji glances between them.

“Zenyatta is the next strongest?” he inquires tentatively.

“Easily,” Kiera replies, grinning, even as Zenyatta scoffs an off-handed, “No.” Ignoring him, Kiera gushes. “I was not there, but from what I hear, Brother Zenyatta very nearly defeated Master Mondatta, and before he joined the monastery, he was a soldier-”

“Enough, Kiera,” Zenyatta cuts in firmly. Kiera goes quiet, chastened, and the first blow of the battering ram rumbles through the wall beneath their feet.

“You trickster,” Genji humphs, mildly amused. “It is no wonder I have been unable to best you.”

“My past is my past,” Zenyatta says, determined to avoid the subject. “I am not who I was, and I never will be again; a friendly spar with a brother is not the same as a fight for one’s life and the lives of others. Say what you like; I will not be the Shambali champion.”

Another crash of the ram into the doors, and the monks along the wall stir restlessly, still awaiting orders.

“Then I will,” Genji says. “Be my second, Master; let me fight in your stead.”

“Genji...” Zenyatta begins, an ache in his voice that makes Genji happy in ways he should not be, particularly not in the face of such danger.

“This is my home as well,” he reminds pointedly. “Please, Master...”

Another moment of silence, another crash of the ram. Zenyatta sighs heavily and lays his hand on Genji’s shoulder.

“The lives of all within these walls rest on your shoulders, Genji. Do you understand that? If you fail...”

“I will not fail you, Master,” Genji says decisively, gripping the handle of his wakizashi. “Death before dishonour.” Zenyatta’s grip tightens on his shoulder, but he says nothing, merely nodding.

The soldiers below take a moment to notice the white cloth Genji waves over the edge of the wall, and a confused scurry ensues, but fortunately the assault is put on pause. Eventually a hardened older man raises a white cloth on the tip of a sword, signalling an agreement to meet. The doors are opened, and Genji and Zenyatta meet the older man and two other soldiers beneath the arch of the entrance.

“You’re surrendering?” the older man sneers past the fat cigar between his lips, one of the soldiers with him translating into the native tongue Genji has heard many times during his stay.

“The surrender will be decided in a battle of champions,” Genji says boldly, cutting into the translation.

“You speak English?” The man’s brow cocks in surprise, but the disgust in his gaze as it drags over Genji’s suit is still prominent, and it lights an indignant fire within the ninja.

“I speak many languages, including that of war,” he growls. “Will you agree to a battle of champions, or will I rain down ruin upon your pathetic army and send you fleeing with your tails between your legs for threatening my home?”

“Bold words for a machine lover,” the man scoffs. “Trying to be like them?” He gestures rudely at Genji’s suit, and Zenyatta’s hand covers Genji’s the moment it grasps his wakizashi.

“Our champion has seen many horrors in this life,” the monk speaks gently. “You cannot comprehend the scars he carries. Please do not insult his bravery where you have not seen his capability.”

“...Need a slave to speak for you, brat?”

Genji sees red, and without the soothing touch of the Iris seeping through Zenyatta’s hand into his, he would open the man’s throat, damn the consequences.

“My teacher is no one’s slave,” he hisses instead. “Say you will send your champion against me, or I will tear you apart here and now.”

“Hmph.” The man looks entirely too pleased with himself, and Genji itches to carve that smirk from his face. “Let’s say I agree to this battle of champions... What do we get if we win?”

“If you win,” Zenyatta speaks before Genji can open his mouth, “the monastery and all therein will be your spoils.” It grates on Genji to hear those words, to know that this man, this bastard, will take great pleasure in taking apart every omnic piece by piece, and perhaps every human too. He starts to protest, but Zenyatta is already continuing. “However, if we win, you and every organisation with whom you have contact will go away and leave the monastery and its surroundings in peace. This includes the village and her people.”

“Sure,” the man agrees dismissively, cocky and confident as he eyes Genji up and down. “And you’re the champion?”

“I am,” Genji manages through gritted teeth.

“Hmph. See you on the battlefield, kid.”

As he turns to leave, he tosses his cigar on the ground at Zenyatta’s feet, and Genji very nearly lunges at the man’s back; two things stop him. First, the soldiers are still watching them, backing up but guarding their commander’s back. Second, and more importantly, the moment the cigar leaves the man’s fingers, Zenyatta does a small sort of hop backward, feet coming up underneath him.

And he hovers.

♟♟♟

The soldiers eye Zenyatta warily, clearly expecting some kind of treachery, but Genji stares openly, stunned speechless, and that makes Zenyatta wish he could smile.

“I would bet that your jaw might hit the ground the moment you remove your mask,” he teases lightly, watching the soldiers and their leader return to their own.

“What- How..?”

“You have only seen the surface of my abilities, my dear,” Zenyatta chuckles, folding his hands in his lap.

“So I am coming to understand,” Genji huffs, Harmony rising above the Discord in his soul as his humour improves. “Why now?”

“He has desecrated the ground here,” Zenyatta shrugs. “The Discord in him and in his men have tainted this place, and I do not wish to sully myself before a battle.” Genji continues to stare at him, silent, and he cocks his head. “You have something to say?”

“What will it take to cleanse this place?” The determination in his voice warms Zenyatta’s core, and he purrs.

“A selfless outpouring of Harmony. It will be cleansed within the day, should we succeed in turning away our aggressors.”

“We will succeed,” Genji insists, dropping promptly to the snowy ground and seating himself to meditate. “Failure is not an option.”

“So determined... I am proud of you, Genji,” Zenyatta says softly, allowing the warmth in him to spill out. Genji’s chest puffs slightly in response, but otherwise he stays silent, seeking connection to the Iris, and Zenyatta joins him as they await the return of the enemy leader and his champion.

Discord has been all but banished from Genji’s mind by the time the enemy leader returns, and Zenyatta watches with pride as his pupil stands with renewed patience to greet him.

“You ready to fight?” the man smirks, hand resting on the pommel of his sword; a fancy thing that Zenyatta would presume to be ornamental, but for the wear of the handle.

“_ Kakugo _; come at me,” Genji replies defiantly, beckoning in challenge.

Despite sitting in the cold and the snow for nearly an hour, he does not seem cold, but Zenyatta understands; the Iris has granted them both warmth and confidence to meet their opponents.

“Tell your slave to back up,” the man sneers, giving Zenyatta a dark look that stings, but not so much as it did the first time.

“My teacher is my second,” Genji returns blatantly. “Who is yours?” Now the man falters, momentarily confused. He scrambles for a moment, glancing around, and then snaps his fingers at one of the soldiers, a large, heavy-set woman with thick cords of muscle. She steps forward, uneasy, and Zenyatta pities the poor woman her superior’s pride.

“That’s my second,” the man says, trying and failing to appear in control. He doesn’t know who he chose; he is too confident in his own abilities to believe he might fail, and Zenyatta allows himself to hope that this will not be as much trouble as he feared it might be.

“Very well,” Genji allows, cool and collected now that his temper has been soothed in the Iris. “Then we shall fight, and should one fall, his second will choose to fight or surrender.”

“Yes, yes; enough talk,” the man grunts, tossing his coat to the woman and drawing his sword. Zenyatta moves back, trusting in his pupil, and Genji merely grips the handle of his wakizashi.

“Come then.”

♙♙♙

The first attack is a test; the man leaps forward and takes a casual swipe aimed at Genji’s throat. Genji shifts his head to the side, raising an arm to deflect the blow upward with the metal of his suit. The second attack is far faster and more brutal; a step into Genji’s space and a stab at his gut while his arm is still raised. Not one to be caught off guard so easily, Genji whips his other arm around to knock the sword to the side with his wakizashi, bringing the first down at the man’s shoulder and barely missing when the man twists out of reach.

Zenyatta has to stifle a proud hum as Genji falls easily into a rhythm, dancing around the man and using only his shorter blade to counter the man’s full sword. The man is talented, certainly, and far more skilled than expected, but Zenyatta can see he is no match for Genji; a challenge, yes, but not a match.

The man growls in irritation and dodges into Genji’s space once again, this time flicking a dagger from his sleeve and jabbing upward at the base of Genji’s ribs. Zenyatta makes a noise of horror, shifting forward a bit before stopping himself, but Genji is already reacting, back bent with a flexibility Zenyatta has never seen from him, so that the sliver of a blade bounces off his suit with a small clink and unbalances the man. Genji plants his hands on the ground and flips over, kicking the man’s wrist in the process and knocking the dagger from his hand.

“Damn it!” the man snarls, stepping back and shaking his numbed hand with a scowl.

Genji lands neatly in a crouch, wakizashi raised, and barks something in his native tongue before catching himself and repeating it in English.

“Let us fight fairly, coward!” he snaps fiercely, the spirit of the dragon within him rearing up with a need to retaliate, yet held back by Genji’s honour. “Else I will use the full capacity of this body.” He flicks his wrist in emphasis, triplet shuriken seeming to appear between his fingers for a moment before another flick vanishes them.

“Try it, machine lover!”

There is more fury in their engagement now, and Zenyatta worries that Genji will lose himself to the anger again. He watches anxiously for any sign that Genji is losing touch with the Iris, but as the engagement stretches, it seems his worry is misplaced; Genji is fierce and strong, but clinical in his methods, keeping a tight rein on his emotions.

Zenyatta can feel nothing but pride now for his pupil, and the pride grows as Genji’s determination slowly beats back his opponent, until at last a deft twist of his wakizashi disarms the man, sending his sword tumbling across snow-dusted cobblestone.

“_ Mada mada _,” Genji scoffs, barely sounding winded. “Surrender.”

“Not to a machine-loving bas-” The man breaks off as Genji snatches his collar and drags him closer, pressing the tip of the wakizashi to his throat.

"Surrender, and you may leave with your life," Genji growls. That he does not immediately kill the man is a testament to how far he's come, and once again Zenyatta marvels at his growth.

"Fine! Fine; you win!" the man hisses, too unnerved by the thought of dying to maintain his false confidence. Genji releases him, and he stumbles back, falling on his backside.

"Go. Take your people with you, and do not return," Genji warns, sheathing his weapon and stepping back before he turns to Zenyatta.

"Well done, my student," Zenyatta preens, delighted. Twirling his hands, he disengages one of the mala beads from the circle around his neck and pours his own connection to the Iris into it, sending it to circle Genji and envelope him in the warmth and healing the Iris provides.

"Thank you, Master," Genji hums, a contented weariness in his tone as he idly watches the glowing orb circle him. "Here you go again, surprising me with something new."

"We are both learning much of one another," Zenyatta chuckles, leaning to shift closer. "Your excellence with a blade surpasses my expectations."

"I have had many countless years of practice," Genji explains blandly. "Most of them I would gladly trade for-"

Whatever he's going to say is lost beneath a sudden wave of rage and Discord from behind. Zenyatta feels it, and does not even bother to turn and find the source; reacting immediately, he slams a hand into Genji's shoulder, throwing him aside. He hopes the reaction momentum is enough to push himself out of the way, but the snap of some electric gun that echoes beneath the archway is enough to know he is doomed; the shot is meant for him, and in protecting Genji, he cannot protect himself.

Electric heat courses through his frame, singeing wires and scorching servos with a sort of agony that can only be described as permeating and long-lasting. Zenyatta is burning from the inside out and cannot even scream his pain, vocal box torched and unresponsive; his optical units have fried, and his auricular sensors are glitching too much to catch anything more than a fragment of sound here and there. Central processors overload and shut down one by one, and all he can think now is that he sincerely hopes someone will be there for Genji after his death.

♙♙♙

For as long as he lives, Genji will never forget the horror of watching his master collapse and convulse beneath zapping sparks of electricity, strangled static-filled cries tearing straight through his chest to his very soul. The mala beads jolt and shudder, and then scatter across the ground, lifeless without the connection to Zenyatta's energy.

A ragged shout breaks past Genji's throat as he lunges to Zenyatta's side, far too late. The electricity still surging through the omnic's body stings and bites at Genji, leaping to the metal of his suit and singeing the skin beneath, coursing gleefully through his prosthetic parts and burning his scars.

"Master! Zenyatta, please..." he begs, desperate; he cannot care for the wounds of his body if the wounds of his heart scream louder and far more painful. "No... No, no, no... Please..."

"Such a pity," that despicable voice croons in feigned sympathy. "Guess all they are is a pile of scrap and screws after all."

Fury gouges through the agony and Genji pauses only to gently trace a finger over the LEDs arranged in neat rows across Zenyatta's forehead, dark now beneath his fingertip. Then he stands, channeling his anger into the spirit of his dragon, which roars within him, eager to unleash vengeance.

"The dragon becomes me," he says, deceptively calm as he summons his dragon to the surface, raising his hand to grip the handle of his katana. "_ Ryūjin no ken wo kurae! _"

Genji takes a gruesome sort of pride in that the last thing the man sees in this life is the bared fangs of a dragon opening to consume him, reducing his body to ash and shredding his spirit as well.

The power of Ryūjin flowing through him reminds Genji of simpler days, before the clan pressed a wedge between him and his brother. The last time he unleashed his dragon with so strong a connection, he was protecting Hanzo from an assassin. His pride for having both saved his brother and successfully summoned his dragon was promptly crushed under the realisation that Hanzo had been punished for not protecting himself.

Genji had never been able to properly connect to his dragon after that. Until now.

Once again, pride for his accomplishment is smothered beneath pain, this time far greater than he can ever remember feeling.

Ignoring the white-faced woman slowly backing away, he sheathes his katana, tempering the dragon's plea for blood, and kneels slowly beside Zenyatta.

The earth is cold beneath him, unyielding, and a gentle snowfall has already left flakes on Zenyatta's body. He cannot feel the cold through the dull, throbbing agony of knowing Zenyatta is gone, and a hole exists in his chest where once warmth blossomed at the monk's laugh, the place that once felt full with every utterance of 'my dear.'

It is unlike any sorrow he has ever known; the emptiness of his heart at the loss of his mother is but a cup to a chasm of the loss of Zenyatta, and Genji cannot even breathe beneath it.

"Brother Genji..." A gentle touch on his shoulder grounds him in reality, returning him to the present, and he looks up at Kiera, who smiles softly. "Come inside, before you catch a cold. We will fix Brother Zenyatta."

"He is dead," Genji says numbly, unable to comprehend what Kiera is saying.

"No, not dead," Kiera promises, smile brightening a fraction. "Any other omnic might die from that, but not Zenyatta. Trust me, Brother; the Iris is not done with him yet.”

It is a weak solace, but one Genji clings to as he carefully gathers Zenyatta’s mala beads. A few of the human monks stay at the gate to be sure the soldiers leave, and one of the more powerful omnics carries Zenyatta himself inside.

No one is allowed into the room but the few who toil endlessly to fix Zenyatta. Genji has no idea what they are doing or if it will work, but he refuses to leave the corridor, seating himself across from the door to the room and cradling the mala beads in his lap. The one that Zenyatta filled with healing energies and set to circle him never leaves his hand as he waits, numbly patient because he can do nothing else, feel nothing else.

He refuses food, refuses drink, ignores company; he cannot allow himself any reprieve until he knows Zenyatta’s fate, so he stays, still and quiet. Waiting.

Within him, he can feel the absence of Harmony, and no amount of meditation can coax even a thread of connection to the Iris. But neither does he feel consumed by Discord, as he was when he arrived; he is merely empty, his soul barren but for the soothing familiarity of his dragon, the spirit a welcome comfort that only occasionally prods at him for release.

At last, the room empties, and the last monk to leave pauses in front of him, seeming exhausted, though it should not be possible for omnics.

“He will recover,” the monk informs him gently. “For now, we have done all we can; the rest is up to his own systems of self-repair. Let him rest, and in the morning we will check on him.”

A bubble of hope swells in Genji’s chest, and he nods his gratitude, too overwhelmed to attempt speech. In the loneliness that follows, an epiphany strikes him, and had he been on his feet, his knees would have given way.

Without Zenyatta, he would no longer have the will to live; above all odds, the monk has given him purpose, has touched his heart and soul and made whole the broken pieces of him. The depth of Genji’s feelings for Zenyatta have surpassed anything he could ever have imagined, and if he is not already in love with the monk, then he is not far from it.

♟♟♟

As dawn breaks, Genji eases into the room, too impatient to wait for the monks to rise and come to check on Zenyatta. It is a spartan room, furnished much as the living quarters are, but with the addition of a shelf containing parts and tools for the repair of omnics, and with a much larger table currently bearing several burnt and charred pieces of metal that must have been replaced in Zenyatta's body. Genji sets the mala beads on the table and gingerly brushes a finger against one of the burnt pieces, trying to imagine where in Zenyatta it once was.

A quiet, clicking buzz catches his attention a moment later, and he immediately turns to the bed, where Zenyatta lies covered in a soft, thin sheet that settles on the curves and points of his body, hiding little.

"It is a strange thing to go willingly into the embrace of death, and yet awake in a world so very familiar," Zenyatta murmurs, the LEDs on his faceplate glowing softly one by one until all are lit and pulsing slightly.

"Believe me, Master," Genji scoffs without thought, "I understand." Delight wars with hesitance, and he flicks a shuriken from its sheath in the prosthetic of his hand to fiddle with something.

"I suppose you do," Zenyatta hums lightly, releasing a small sigh as he eases himself up into a seated position. Genji steps closer, reaching for his shoulder only to withdraw, self-conscious with the realisation of his feelings.

Settling weakly against the wall, Zenyatta makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a groan, leaning his head against the stone, LEDs flickering.

"I- I brought your mala beads," Genji blurts, nervousness tickling his chest. He gestures toward the table, and Zenyatta shifts slightly to look, breathing a tired chuckle.

"I do not have the energy to connect to them, but thank you," he purrs gently. "They were a gift from Mondatta when I finished my training with him."

A faint stab of jealousy pricks at Genji's heart, and he nearly drops his shuriken, appalled at himself.

"They are important to you," he says before he can stop himself, a question in his voice that he can't hold back.

"Mm. They are a reminder that I am capable of rising above my past." There is a somber note in the monk's voice, and Genji dares to look at him.

"...You were a soldier?"

"...I was," Zenyatta answers quitely, the faintest hint of shame buzzing his voice. "I have done many things I regret. Hurt people who did not deserve it. Destroyed many things..." He sounds very far away, and Genji's heart aches for memories relived; a pain he knows all too well. "I was... _ special _." The venomous twist on the word is unexpected; Zenyatta has never spoken so harshly, and it speaks for how tainted these memories are, a sentiment Genji understands better than he would like.

"Special?" he prompts quietly when Zenyatta falls silent.

"Only three of my kind were ever created, though plans were in the works for more," Zenyatta explains, monotonous in his effort to remain separate from the memories. "We were meant to be a counter to... To Overwatch. We were built to be assassins, infiltrators... Programmed to adapt in whatever way was necessary to destroy it, to remove the last obstacle between the omnics and total human domination. Overwatch defeated us before my kind could be properly implemented, and I thank the Iris every day that I did not do anymore damage than I did before I met Mondatta." He hesitates, and then shifts, faceplate turning down toward his hands. "We moved my core to a new body after I became his student, and it became evident that I had far more omnic energy than most; I struggled to control it, until he taught me to focus it through the Iris. The orbs are but a conduit now, to ease the connection between my energy and the power of the Iris."

When silence falls again, Genji does not try to fill it. He drops his gaze to the shuriken in his hand, trying his best to maintain control of his emotions.

"...Did I... scare you?" Zenyatta asks timidly after the silence has stretched to uncomfortable levels.

The shuriken clinks against the stone floor, barely muted by a thin decorative rug, and heat floods up Genji’s neck as he debates picking it up or leaving it for the moment. He struggles with the decision, attempting to distract himself from the rising loneliness that sweeps in when that question strips him bare.

He nods, ever so slightly, unable to hold back the emotion.

“Let me see your face, Genji,” Zenyatta requests, holding out his hand. Genji shakes his head, but promptly steps across the room to kneel beside the bed, leaning on it. Zenyatta rests his hand against the side of Genji’s helmet, but doesn’t remove it, simply caresses.

“I thought you died,” Genji admits, barely above a whisper.

“So did I,” Zenyatta replies softly. “I suppose the likes of me are not worthy of so peaceful a death.” Genji shakes his head vehemently, unsure how to respond, but disagreeing viscerally. Reaching up, he hesitates only a moment before removing the faceplate and setting it aside to take Zenyatta’s hand and press it against his cheek.

The cool metal against his heated skin feels good, soothes him.

“Please... Do not die, Zenyatta.”

♟♟♟

Neither of them has said anything about that moment of weakness. Zenyatta has made a full recovery, and he has yet to decide if that is a good thing or an undeserved mercy. Genji has not left his side but for the few moments every day he needs to relieve himself. Eight days after the incident, Zenyatta finds himself grateful for the hovering; the ninja is there to support him when terrifying news arrives.

“Mondatta is among the hostages,” Kiera confirms, grim, reading over the message again. “He is alive and well, as are the mayor and all the other hostages. For now... It’s been nearly a week.”

Zenyatta grips Genji’s arm, cold in spite of his whirring servos, processors glitching empty; he cannot think beyond a faulty cycle of repeating those words over and over.

“Master?” Genji’s voice is soft, his hand firm against Zenyatta’s.

“I am alright, Genji,” he answers softly. “Thank you, Brother Kiera. Is there anything else in the message?”

“Ah, yes,” Kiera flips to the end. “An addendum for Brother Genji, from Mr. McCree. He says, ‘You’re in a good place and I’m happy for you; if I have to, I’ll see to it myself your friend is returned safely. Our best for your hospitality.’”

“That sounds like McCree,” Genji chuckles. “I am certain he will do his best in this, Master.”

“Mm.” Zenyatta can say nothing else, not until later, when they are alone. “I cannot stay.”

“Master?” Genji looks up from whatever he’s writing; Zenyatta has been too distracted to notice what he’s doing. The cock of his head is perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“I cannot stay here, Genji,” he sighs, turning away from the window and the winter landscape beyond. “My place is out there. With him. I should not be holed up in a monastery meditating and preaching peace while there are people out there suffering, human and omnic alike.”

“...What do you mean?” Genji sets his pen down and leans back in the chair, glancing to the door before removing his mask and setting it on the table. He turns an attentive gaze to Zenyatta, and that he has not immediately contradicted the statement helps settle Zenyatta’s odd nervousness.

“If you want to make someone understand you,” he says, moving away from the window and leaning against the table, “which is the better approach; to preach at him and tell him how wrong he is, or to try and understand him first?”

“The latter,” Genji answers, following along. “You want to establish relations with humans?”

“That is where I should be,” Zenyatta agrees, grateful that he isn’t expressing disbelief.

“Why?” he asks instead.

“Why should I not?” Zenyatta returns.

“No,” Genji interjects, shaking his head. “Why now? If you truly feel this way, why have you not done it already?”

Zenyatta’s nerves return, accompanied by a sick tightness around his core. Standing away from the table, he idly taps a mala bead, sending the whole circle spinning around his neck.

“...I feared my past,” he admits after a long moment. “I feared that being around so many people would re-engage whatever protocols are still hidden within me. The ones buried so deeply that even changing my body cannot remove them. Mondatta... He resolved that fear in me, but I allowed myself to grow stagnant, content in this place where so little happens.”

“And you feel that you would better serve out there, in the world?” Genji clarifies.

“Is that not why Mondatta left?” Zenyatta points out, stepping toward the window and waving his hand at the landscape beyond. “To engage with the humans and encourage human-omnic relations? How can I do any less?”

“Before I give you my opinion, I have a question,” Genji says, shifting in his seat and watching Zenyatta closely. “Is this something you want to do because it will improve human-omnic relations... or because you want to follow in the footsteps of your mentor?”

Zenyatta turns to answer, only to find himself lacking it. After a moment of quiet, Genji stands and steps around the desk.

“Master... you have a gift,” he says simply. “A gift for connection, for making people open up where they may not want to. I speak from experience; you are very good at what you can do. But this... restlessness... It is unlike you. If you want to leave the monastery to seek out where you may be of most help, I am the last person to try and stop you. But I fear there is something more to this than a desire to help. You are more than capable of forming relationships with anyone you come across; I believe that. But... this timing is...” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You can do whatever you set your mind to... but I think your heart needs to be in it as well.”

The declaration leaves Zenyatta speechless, startled and empty. The tightness eases in his core, letting him relax like he hasn’t done since... well before Mondatta left.

“...You believe we have hearts?” he asks lightly.

“How can I not?” Genji grins, scars stretching awkwardly, but the expression genuine. “You have given mine back to me. I am here because you cared for me, and I will not rest until that debt is repaid.”

“You owe no debt to me, Genji,” Zenyatta chuckles. “Rather, I owe you... You are right, and that you see me so clearly is yet another way in which you have surprised me. When did you get so perceptive?”

A blotchy red spills across Genji’s face and he looks away, suddenly and unusually shy.

“I-I have... been practicing,” he mutters. “I can see... your energy; the balance of your Harmony and Discord.”

“Sneaky little brat,” Zenyatta laughs, amusement purring through his servos. “You have grown in leaps and bounds, my dear student.” Genji’s blush deepens, and he distracts himself, picking up his mask.

“Will you be leaving, then?” he asks, quiet, turning the mask over in his hands.

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta hums, reaching out to take the mask. “I believe I am in need of a night to reconnect with the Iris, set myself to rights. Will you come with me?”

Genji’s hesitance jabs at Zenyatta, filling him with an odd sense of disappointment.

“...I was going to talk to you,” Genji whispers. “Tonight... I- McCree sent me a letter. From Winston, his boss. An offer to join Overwatch. I do not- I was hesitant to consider the offer, but if you are leaving...”

“So you wish to join your friend?” Zenyatta asks, holding out the mask.

“I... I believe it may be where I belong,” Genji says quietly, making no move to take it. “Where the Iris can make the most use of me.”

“Genji,” Zenyatta chides, placing his hand against the prosthetic replacement of the man’s jaw. “We are all one within the Iris; it guides us and heals our broken parts. But we do not have to confine ourselves within it. Do not choose your path because you believe the Iris wills it; choose your path and the Iris will follow.”

“Where I want to be and where I _ should _ be are two very different things, Master.” He covers Zenyatta’s hand with his own, an intensity in his dark, warm gaze that surprises the monk. “Do not tell me to choose, or I will go where I desire, not where I belong.”

There is far more behind those words than Zenyatta understands, but he does not press; to cause such a conflict in Genji’s heart, it is already a difficult decision, and he will not make it more difficult.

“Then you will go where you belong,” he says softly, pulling Genji’s hand down and placing the mask into it. “And I will go where I belong. One day, we will meet again.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

-::End Part 1::-


End file.
